


Blood of Arwan courts Apollo’s Own

by Capt_Tzanakaki



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Bright Moon are Romans, Celtic/Roman Empire AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, General!Adora, Horde as Celts, Multi, Other, Power Dynamics, Queen!Catra, Slavery, back to Enemies, repeat, still don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-01 15:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capt_Tzanakaki/pseuds/Capt_Tzanakaki
Summary: He who knows nothing, loves nothing. He who can do nothing understands nothing. He who understands nothing is worthless. But he who understands also loves, notices, sees … The more knowledge is inherent in a thing, the greater the love.… Anyone who imagines that all fruits ripen at the same time as the strawberries knows nothing about grapes.--Paracelsus





	Blood of Arwan courts Apollo’s Own

**Author's Note:**

> Any of you who have obscure knowledge about Roman culture and customs, your time to shine/let me pick your brain. Same for those with knowledge of the Celts. Same for those who know things. Smart people, I need thee. 
> 
> Par the course, I love constructive criticism. Tis good for making better stories and getting characters right. Plus, I don't bite.
> 
> CT

 

The blunt side of the naginata clapped against her ribs. Nothing. The guard huffed and sharply pivoted the weighted end of the staff into one of the bruises on her lower back. The shackles jostled, that metallic unrhythmic _clink-clink-sh-shift_ putting an ache in her teeth, but the guards learned their lesson the first time they got within snapping distance. She clenched her jaw, gnashing down on the hiss that bubbled up in her throat when he pressed the naginata’s handle to dig deeper.

Catra remained standing.

In one breath, the pressure lifted—a creak of an adjusted grip against leather and Catra brace herself for the blow.

“Lieutenant Horatio,” a voice rang out. Silence coated every other tongue and ascendency wrote her next words in stone. “Restrain yourself.” The guard did not hesitate to step back and bow. The mask covering the lower half of her face obscured her frown, but her loathing, the disdain and defiance were easy to read. Catra’s eyes dripped poison and did not flinch when the general came close.

She-ra.

As the myths said: a tall, empowering, imposing figure cut in holy white; a being whose gravitational pull enraptured all; the judicious tactician responsible for most of Bright Moon’s victories and every one of the Horde’s defeats; an ancient deity given flesh to save the lands from the encroaching Horde.

As the myths did not: she was softer up close than Catra was expecting. The generals Catra knew never shed their war coats no matter how distant their last battle. It was odd, on the edge of jarring, to see something different in those blue eyes. 

Catra blinked out of her reverie to realize she had been staring—just like the myths said. Her ears twitched and played catch up to the conversation. “…never before. The people won’t be pleased,” one advisor said, shaking his head.

“If the people will only be appeased by bloodshed, then the war has corrupted their hearts worse than I feared. We gain more by mercy here than a senseless revenge. I have already spoken to powers that be.”

“Be reasonable, Lady She-ra. We cannot just let her go free. She has led armies against us! Abscond this malfeasance you protest. Warfare does not allow for leniency. It led Mystacor to near annihilation by the Horde; they do not play by our rules, we must play by theirs. She is to be executed at evenfall.”

“Then I claim her.”

The silence from before held not a candle to the vacuum of sound that swept the court. Catra felt her eyes go wide, wider when she realized She-ra had been staring at her during the entire conversation with the advisor. Sound exploded six hard heartbeats later, everyone talking at once. That advisor began to sputter and bluster. He objected at every level. “You can’t just claim a thrall on your whim, Lady She-ra!” Those impossibly blue eyes left her and Catra, discretely, greedily, sucked in oxygen. 

“The last battle was my victory. By law, it is within my rights,” She-ra said. More advisors stepped forth, all arguing against, all advocating for Catra’s head. Bright Moon’s general surprised Catra yet again when she moved in close. Close enough for Catra to smell her—like charged particles before the lightening strike—and to note how calloused her fingers were when she unclasped the mask locking her jaw. Catra didn’t have to look to know every hand of every court guard rested on the hilt of their sword. The Horde commander worked her jaw, joints cracking to harsh effect.

She-ra spoke. “Tell me, Horde soldier, if you got to throw the die against Fate, would you see yourself perish for your cause or sleep under the guardianship of my household and bear its burdens?” 

Not at all of what the myths spoke. That softness of which Catra caught wind, that was exploitable, something into which she could dig her claws. Deity or not, Catra knows about the rules of flesh, and flesh bleeds. Catra saw to that in their last skirmish. She just had to buy herself some time, some knowledge. _Kill the king_ , as every Horde soldier knew, _and claim their riches for your own_. Catra was not Second-in-Command by luck and circumstance alone. Catra knew about those in power. The masks they wear. They lies they tell and whatever abuses She-ra had in store for her Catra swore on her soul she would revisit upon her a thousand-fold. She swallowed the bile, the rage, of being reduced from leader of Horde armies to a slave behind a smile that was all teeth.

“Why, General, I do believe I am in need of a good night’s sleep. Lead the way.”

She-ra did not, in fact, lead the way. Perfumed politicians grabbed ahold of their general with eyes and words, and by the set of She-ra’s neutral frown, she’s not pleased about their objections, but she listened. She listened and nodded and bade a quartet of guards to escort her prize to her abode. Catra’s tail lashed at the treatment though her features schooled into phlegm and a twist of judiciousness. Observations and patience would see her free. Her ambitions would not allow her to die in a Bright Moon cell. The leader of the guard was more astute than brute, a hood fastened over her head and around her neck as soon as they are out of the hall. Their route is circular and itinerant, doubtlessly to confuse her for Catra smells the same bakery twice and the smithy shop who tans their leather too strongly. The hood came off with the same motion that pushed her into her cell.

Catra toured her prison. Nothing like those of the Horde. She had a cot with two blankets, a window barred with blocks of stained glass several inches thick, a small desk, water jug and mug. Cheap ceramic quality, not the kind she could fashion into a blade: the clay too brittle, the surface cracking too easily under pressure, under the touch of a claw. She tsked and moved on. She could pace three, five steps and be back to her starting point. But, the floors and walls were clean, the sheets smelled of pine, and cold did not seep from the walls. The cell discomforted her.

Nothing like the Horde. Nothing like home.

Catra swallowed the growl rumbling low in her chest, ran an irritated hand through her mane. Rue tugged at Catra’s nerves for ignoring Paxi all those times he proselytized those breathing exercises. She needed to center herself, to find solace in her thoughts. They would be the only things keeping her sane once She-ra got ahold of her. The memory of what Bright Moon did to their prisoners of war, strung up and swaying from the trees of the Whispering Woods, pulsed behind her eyelids when she closed them in the dark.

The mug shattered against the wall.

 

* * *

 

Catra arched her brow. “What?” _Eloquent as always, Catra._

To her credit, the servant had no discernible tell. She repeated the words at the same pace as before. “Lady She-ra inquires if you would be amenable to breaking your fast with her in the peristylium.” Working through the pomp and circumstance of typical Bright Moon speech was a chore. It put a quiet, immature groan of despair in her throat to think she would be subject to this for the duration of her stay. Catra snorted and grunted her compliance. They spoke as if she had a choice. She watched as the servant bowed and stood back. Guards took her place and Catra watched as they shuffled for the right key. Watched who stood to attention.

Who slouched.

Who yawned.

Whose eyes were quick to focus on sounds.

Who had sloppy footwork.

Whose expression mirrored her own hate.

She watched and waited and cursed when none of those passed by presented opportunity. She-ra trained her soldiers well. Petty as it was, Catra refused to give her respect for that.

The servant led her to an open courtyard, less garden and more of a patio in a wing of the house rimmed with an arcade and guards at attention. All the plants were a sun-bleached green; short, geometric bushes, creeping vines along the columns and artwork etched onto those lacking green. The air was thick with rosemary. Fountains with floating flower petals and fish nibbling at the surface. A shrine to Apollo and the house gods sat at opposite ends. Catra had passing familiarity with some Bright Moon customs; espionage did not work without it. The space was not small albeit private enough for a conversation without eavesdroppers. The path was wide enough for the guards to escort the prisoner to the table in formation, salute, and retreat to the periphery. Leaving her with Bright Moon’s greatest general in a thousand lifetimes.

Catra’s eyes roved for changes, for chinks in the armor, but She-ra sat soldier straight with an easy, innate conviction and eyes of blue fire. A cascade of hair played in the sun and ensnared the color citrine, a kind of color forged only through heat and pressure and free of ferric impurities. Pure. She smiled and Catra fought not to reel back and hiss.

“Would you like to sit?” She-Ra asked. There was the scrape of wood on gravel as Catra sat, then silence. “Will you tell me your name?”

Catra bristled. Second in Command to the Horde. The leader responsible for many Horde victories, so many of Bright Moon’s defeats. So insignificant that her name goes unremembered? Casual indifference masked roiling fury and an itch to bury her claws in She-ra’s throat. “Hard to believe Bright Moon’s general doesn’t know the name of the Horde’s high command. Memories slipping in your old age, She-ra?”

She didn’t take the bait. “I know your title and you have a particular moniker in our streets, but I will not presume you wish to be called by either unless told.”

Catra did not answer, instead she gave attention to the spread of food: bread still warm from the oven; rich olive oil in tall pitchers; fruit sweet, fruit sour; a basket of soft-boiled eggs, peeled; milk warm and fresh and thick as cream; carpaccio-thin slices of meat salted and lightly smoked; a filet of fish crusted with char and a sprinkle of seasonings that smelled like thyme, basil, and the fiery lick of an unknown spice; olives and stacks of cheese and fare so foreign Catra did not have the words to describe them. Everything easily picked up with fingers and necessary; no utensils to be had, not even a spoon or a pair tongs. A tongue wet with hunger wrapped around a canine, begging. Catra touched none of it.

“My apologies. I do not know of your dietary preferences. Will this do? I can request another dish from the cook if you would like?” She-ra said.

That same canine bit down, almost drawing blood. Catra stared at the shrine for the house gods, noting where the chisel slipped from the engraver’s hand and the artist covered the slip-up with off-colored clay. Focusing on outside details let Catra ignore the pull of those eyes. She-ra sighed in the silence as it dragged on. Catra tensed when she heard her stand, felt the shadow as She-ra leaned in. Tensed and waited for the blow.

A large hand reached near, taking a small portion from every plate, poured herself a cup of milk and took deliberate bites from each. Swallowed. Waited.

“It’s safe to eat,” she spoke gently. It startled Catra into looking, just a flitting of the eyes, less than a second, but enough to memorize the lines in her face. That softness from the court again. Weakness. A cold, practical side of her soul argued for Catra to eat and drink. They may not offer food again. She’d need strength to fight or risk a quiet death. The food smelled honest and fresh, no waft of almonds, nothing leaded like arsenic or the more delicate foxglove.

Her stomach clenched once, questioning, hopeful. Catra clenched a fist and focused on the claw piercing the soft flesh under her thumb.

“Speak your true intent or be done with me,” the Horde commander said.

“I would have you tell me about the Horde. Your language, your customs, your people, your lands—”

A fist slammed down on the oak table. The was the minute shift of armor, the squeak of leather under a tighter grip. Catra spat fire, “I am no traitor.”

She-ra’s eyes do not harden but there is a cut to her words. “I ask for no betrayal. Merely to understand you. Your people. Who raised you? Did you grow up in the mountains? The meadows? Do you mean to tell me that war and bloodshed is all you yearn and learn amongst your people?”

Catra scoffed. “Don’t you? She-ra Sanguinarius?”

Catra watched as the tendons along her knuckles grew pronounced; the smallest of tells gave her away. “No. I want no more war. I want us to drop our arms and seek refuge and trade with one another,” she said.

Stunned silent, Catra gaped and stared, then cackled into laughter loud and edging into cruel. They part ways still strangers, hunger still licking Catra’s tongue, yet she tasted satisfaction all the way back to her cell.

Mornings fell into routine and they dug ruts well-grooved with habit. She-ra’s invite to break her morning fast, that same servant speaking the same florid bafflegab, and Catra entertained her host with non-answers and scoffed, ate sparingly, then gorged herself to sick compensation. The cook may not poison She-ra’s meals but that guaranteed not her own served on a tray at night. She-ra’s entreaties for walks in the afternoon and evening, still goading and pleading, bleating about peace and understanding and commonality wore Catra’s patience to a veneer of its former self. She-ra was never anything but clean, garbed in white, platinum locks loose, and markers of her station in place. Despite the towel and basin of water offered for daily use, Catra felt grubby, small and plebeian standing next to her. Another one of Bright Moon’s mind games, she’s sure.

Catra accepted the ‘requests’ because she needed a layout to plan, to escape, lest her position within the Horde grow precarious, but the walks happened in either silence or mockery. Catra’s name remained hers, known but unshared. Small rebellions and antagonisms full of deeper meanings. And yet. She-ra never threatened violence, never raised her sword, never struck her, never did anything masters did to slaves.

Tension ran under her skin for days, waiting for the burn, the scar, the _humiliation_ , and Catra would almost welcome it to stop jumping at the jangle of keys or the smell of smoke laced with hot iron. There is the thought that Bright Moon is different, could be better, at least in this, although such thoughts are ephemeral and eaten away by the certainty of degradations to come. She breathed. Remembered Paxi. Unknotted the anxiety, the fear, the bitterness, the melancholy, the hate, the bruised emotions just to make her lungs ache less, but the difference is little and less. Nothing here is like there.

Three, five paces every day, every hour, every morning, every evening, and her blood rises discontent.

She-ra allowed her out of her cell at her request, limited to the diurnal, never at or during eventide, but without She-ra, the guards secured weighted shackles around her limbs, spears tips hovering at the base of her spine. Catra contemplated talking with She-ra if only to negotiate the chance to run, to stretch, to spar.

Her teeth ache. She wants to hunt. For her blood to sizzle under the pressure of adrenaline. For the drunken taste of intoxication on wine, on victory, on something more than just this cell and She-ra’s palaver. This place where the people smell foreign in all the wrong ways; where the food is rich and plentiful and never satisfying; where the pleasures she sees and hears are never for her, never shared with her; where her cot is passably warm and always empty; where respect and admiration are only for the person two steps to her right, sneers and spit her due deference now; where all she wants is out, out, out out out, out and home and she craves the girth of Goiás, Kano’s silence, Burk and his twin and their mischief, and Ferris’s hyena-laugh. The press and want of her desires churned sleep to soundless nightmares of _never, never again,_ but Catra did not gain her position by letting shadows consume her. It took several nights, staring out and down the darkness—not true darkness, not her darkness, too much light, much too bright—though Catra’s first night of deep, restful sleep doesn’t happen until she meets _her_.

It was spite that had her turn down the request for breakfast, ready for the beatings, ready for pain and fight, the ache in her teeth prominent, but the moment stretched, grew tenuous then snapped cold. She-ra exacts no petty pound of flesh for her slight and her claws itch to make She-ra bleed, make her react. Make her pay. The only reaction is the nuanced, the clenched fist, the long, soundless exhale, the wrinkled nose during the talks, during the walks that diminish in number. Fewer and fewer meals are taken in company until hunger forced Catra’s hand to accept a random invitation.

Saying yes startled the servant to slip, a hitch and a blink cracked the facade. Catra smirked. The servant bowed a beat later, rushed a guard over to run a message to the kitchens then made to escort Catra to the peristylium. _Not the usual route_ , Catra realized by the second hallway. They were trying to stall for time by taking detours, but Catra had most of the house memorized and her smirk grew smug as she watched them squirm.

Wood clacked against wood. Harsh grunts. Heavy exhales. Smell succeeded sound. Sun-baked sweat. Boiled leather. Something so vaguely sour it made her tongue trace a canine, tempted.

Reminded her of home.

Thought did not follow impulse. She bolted.

The guards hollered about seizing her, but Catra was quicksilver, fast where they were slow, and the sounds were _so close_. Temptation and verboten hummed alongside her blood vessels, the thrill of pushing back—she’s not some beaten, obedient pet—tickled a laugh into her throat and a grin is a near thing. It loosened into something genuine that tasted a little like wonder at her reward.

 _There you are._

Feet slowed, heels kicking into the dirt, eyes observing then drinking in every nuance and every detail, because there they are.

A squadron’s worth of soldiers who nursed wounds of bloody bruises of flesh and ego were outside the ring and several more lay comatose on stretchers. Spectators leaned over the railing one floor up or lingered in the surrounding arcade for better vantage points. Catra was not alone in her rapture. What few soldiers remained standing circled a lone fighter garbed in the common cadet’s blue tunic. Dappled silver armor gleaned when it caught the sun and had accents of burnt umber where the leather breeches and greaves peeked through. They donned no helmet, no head piece to the bafflement of the Horde commander.

 _Do they have a death wish?_

They are breathing heavily, whoever this bold cadet was, hair slick and loose from its warrior tie. The soldiers—older, scarred, scared, thicker, thinner, bigger, brutish, wiry, swarthy and fair—lurched cautious around the blonde. The smells were stronger now and told a story that was hours old. One broke from the pack, menace on his lips, war cry torn from his lungs, and war hammer raised high. Hesitation shadowed none of their steps as the cadet glided in and out of strike range, their sword sheathed for the close combat use of a boot knife. They crouched low to evade his swing, then rose, helixing through his blind spots as the blade ran north from belt to the soft flesh under his extended arm. The fabric gaped open to show the shaded skin of a farmer and the heavy belly of a drinker. Catra snickered. The blunt edge of the knife tapped twice against his neck, which carried some message, so Catra assumed, as the soldier knelt servile before the svelte victor, menace replaced with reverence.

The cadet turned to face the rest of their opponents, sword now in hand, and Catra’s chest thumped hot. _Oh._

Grime and crusted blood stuck to her face. A nasty bruise lined her jaw, fading into mellow colors. There was the high of adrenaline and exhilaration blooming in her cheeks, burning bright in those eyes. Confidence strutted in her smile. Those that remained danced around her like dwarf planets orbiting the sun—they moved in deference to her prowess, guided by something as absolute as physics. From this height it’s a beautiful, bewitching pursuance, soldiers circling a single cadet. Risk and peril did not cripple her spine; she stood undaunted before her trial and more than anything Catra wanted to be more than just a spectator. Something swooped and rolled in her stomach, spiraling up and out to pleasantly tingle the pads of her fingers. She cannot recall extending her claws but they are _taptapscratchcatchplay_ eager and impatient on the railing underneath her feet. Her ears stand to attention, one swiveling and alert to the sounds behind her— _they’re coming, coming_ —but all her other senses latched onto the scene below.

She did not make the first move. Her style was reactionary. No spear or sword of her opponents angled the same way, it looked like the crooked maw of a shark opened wide. That confidence didn’t waver as her own blade came to parry one strike, impaled the spear deep into the earth and used it for momentum and leverage. They bumrushed her position, and Catra winced, disappointed. _That’s tha—_

Airborne, she somersaulted out of reach, over heads and weapons all, heels landing then burrowing socket-shoulder deep into the largest of her adversaries. His size did not protect him from the buckling force of her propulsion, unable to brace for the fall properly. He flopped on the ground, stunned from where she rattled his skull. A leg sweep behind and to her right fell two more, greaves kill-sharp and precise around collarbone and helmet. They stayed down. Catra watched the soldiers go down quicker, faster, her pulse a cadence as the cadet picked up speed.

Her ear trembled. _Close. Closer. They—Almost here._

 _Want to be there,_ her heart pitched.

Impulse ushered the heady free-fall of the jump, the sprint, the grab of a random weapon, and Catra grinned razors when the blonde blocked the strike from behind. One eye of cobalt tinted luminous from the fever of fight stared her down, and then she quickly rolled with the kinetic energy of the strike to spin and face her new, her only opponent. Catra’s grin widened.

“Looks like you could use a worthy opponent,” she baited. She twirled the staff she purloined, testing its weight. Catra hummed. For a training weapon it had a good, solid feel in her hands. It would hold under pressure.

There was a shout of the guards, then a crackling, schizophrenic silence. Catra kept her eyes on the blonde woman in front of her. The blonde who went wide, then narrow-eyed when the battle fever metabolized into something more circumspect. The grip on her sword flexed, unfurled, flex, slack, flex. Settled on slack. A warrior’s grip. Catra felt those eyes assess, debate, settled on smirk.

“Did no one ever tell you not to bring a staff to a sword fight?”

The staff swung to rest across her shoulder blades with a causal air she doesn’t feel deeper than surface value. She waltzed a Fibonacci scale of a circle around this fighter who kept her guard up. Catra’s deceit fooled no one and she smirked. The thrill of the hunt snaked down her spine to electrify her hackles. Behind her, Catra’s tail thrashed a happy, impatient curlicue.

Catra struck first.

Sculpted sinew and flesh worked a martial seduction. Catra was mesmerized by the flexing of muscles, the movement precise. Brutal. Violent. Enthralling. Elegance given form. A most bewitching dance by sky blue eyes cut by a tincture of slate grey.

Catra told herself this bout was just impulse. That it didn’t mean anything, winning or losing this match. Except, she would win because Horde commanders don’t lose to Bright Moon cadets. Not ever. This fight wasn’t about her pulling punches because of the guards in her periphery. Wasn’t about her smiling more openly and honestly now than in the past month, tasting something a little like happiness. Wasn’t about how she forgot about the guards or the smiles because this woman was _good_ and set off a focused, fiery zeal Catra had not felt in _years_. This was impulse and it didn’t mean anything. An action because she can. Because it’s wrong. Because no one gave her permission and Catra wanted to push back. Wanted the trouble and the look and the fear and to be—

Supine and sword at the throat not for the first time. They each bore their share of marks—clawed, fractured, torn, healing, still grinning—but that matters not when the Bright Moon figure has the advantage over the Horde soldier. _Horde commander_ , her fist clenched, a spasm of muscle memory though Catra doesn’t have the thought to follow it through. Breathing is a complex thing, thinking even more so, and not because the blonde was straddling her. The weight of her registered as subconscious fact—warmth, soft, _want_ —as her pupils waned to slits and her nose flared, greedy for details. The details were minute, bordering on whimsical, and she dared not taint them with the association of Bright Moon. Another time. Another place. It was a sore bit of avidity Catra indulged to just drift and imagine this slice of paradise. The shackles would come, her freedom would go, and the cadet would become memory, but, not yet. Not now. Nothing the blonde said got passed the chasm between her ears and her brain. Her tongue is a thick, unwieldy thing as she demanded her name.

The command startled the woman. Catra can feel her lean back just so from the balls of her feet, the weight of her less, and Catra wanted to drag her back in, wanted the weight, that warmth, of her. This close those eyes are a muted, mellower shade of blue. They blinked.

“Name,” Catra repeated. The grip on the cadet’s weapon went slack and feeble. Bemusement knitted her brow. Catra almost allowed a chuckle. “Mine’s Catra.” The cadet’s eyes blew wide and she worked her jaw to no sound. Thoughts filtered through her eyes, shaded them a complex color Catra couldn’t read, but then she doesn’t care because what followed was wondrous.

“Adora,” the cadet croaked, cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s, ah, Adora?”

She was still pinned beneath a Bright Moon cadet, sword in enemy hands at her throat, and about to be taken to a cell. Catra’s smirk looked like victory and the words in her mouth tasted sweet.

“Hey Adora.”

 

.

.

.

 


End file.
